The Roger Thompson Chronicles (2/6)

[Brism Wanor]

                         FIFTH INFINITY PRODUCTIONS

                  with increasingly spotty assistance from
                          Mademoiselle Muse, Inc.

                            and shin kicks from
                  United Narrators, Speakers, Presenters,
                         and Other Talkers (UNSPOT)

                         Reluctantly Bring You ...

                       The Roger Thompson Chronicles

                             Part Two (of six)
                            Station Of The Sage

      Far from any of the normal galactic trade or vacation routes, out in
an unwelcoming, and unpleasant little sector of the galaxy, slightly above
the galactic ecliptic plane, lies the Almoundi Stellar Cluster.
      Among the stars which make up this rather dull cluster, the brown
dwarf star Zagnutbar is particularly uninspiring, but, as is often the
case with unimportant seeming things, Zagnutbar is very, very important.
      Orbiting Zagnutbar is the curious, desserted planet, Krunch. (Any
editorial desire of the reader to correct "desserted" to "deserted" should
be curbed, as planet Krunch is, in point of fact, the only known place in
the galaxy where chocolate desserts grow wild. There are many explanations
for this, but none are terribly interesting.)
      Seemingly suspended, far above the chocolate mousse ocean, is a space
station. It is not much like the stations of legend. It is not grand,
imposing, or beautiful. It is, not to mix metaphors, or avoid euphemisms,
ugly. The haul is pitted with the scars of collisions with meteoric dust,
the plates are warped and mangled from thermal stress, and the whole thing
is in desperate need of a good paint job, or indeed, any paint job.
Despite this derelict appearance, a scan of the station would prove that
there is power, and, a living, breathing being aboard. It is almost, but
not quite, time to meet that being.
      It is because of this being, that the station, the planet Krunch, the
star Zagnutbar, and the Almoundi Cluster are at all relevant. This is
where one can find the most knowledgeable (so he says), most enlightened
(ditto), most magnificent Sage. This is Whatchamacallit Station. This is
my destination.
      By a curious coincidence, "Whatchamacallit" is the only word known to
have no definite meaning in any known language. To the residents of
Boonrapper XII, who dare not scream, even in death, for fear of saying
something hideously insulting, it has no hidden meanings. The Zoogle, who
can compress the entire history of an object into a single syllable, have
no word even remotely like it. Even on earth, where the absurd and
illogical have been elevated to an art form, its meaning is unclear. It
was doubtless chosen by the Sage for precisely this reason.
      Completing the tour of the outside of Whatchamacallit Station brings
me to a small docking bay, and an airlock. After passing through the
rickety airlock, kicking the inner door when it refuses to open, and
kicking it again until it closes, I find myself in total darkness. I
swear, then start pounding the wall, looking for a light switch. With the
third impact of my fist, there is a faint popping sound, then, slowly and
fitfully, several of the ceiling panels begin to glow. The glow spreads on
down the corridor, like some strange trickling stream of light, seeping
into the recalcitrant dark.
      Looking around, I quickly come to the conclusion that I preferred the
darkness. The inside of the station is no more appealing than the outside,
dusty, pealing walls, a floor littered with detritus, and above, a maze of
cobweb-shrouded pipes.
      Stepping carefully forward, my foot lands on something which slips
out from under me, spilling me gracelessly to the floor. Ouch!
      Slowly, carefully, I start to stand, only to find there's something
stuck to my shoe. I peel it off, and find it's a piece of cardboard,
backed with some form of cheep gum, which doesn't stick to walls, but does
stick to shoes.
      The cardboard, clearly meant to be a sign, has "This way to the Sage
-->", scrawled on it in crayon. Well, if I had any doubts of being in the
right place, they're gone now. Tossing the sign aside, I stand, and
carefully pick my way down the corridor.
      Three right turns, four left turns, one backtrack, and one bout of
getting totally lost later, I open an ordinary door, and enter the Sage's
sanctum.
      It looks like a college dorm living room: ratty couch, rattier
chairs, enormous high-definition holovision set with two volume settings,
loud and louder, and the requisite pizza boxes, mostly from Bonzi Pizza,
beer cans, and potato chip bags. At least the pizza boxes are in a pile,
so this guy isn't a total slob. The floor is covered in trampled, torn
periodicals, _Midnight Star_, _National Invader_, _Nosy Gossip_, and a
pile of disturbingly well-used _Play Being_s. I said college dorm,
earlier, I revise that. The place is a rat hole. Of course, the occupant
*is* a rat, so what did I expect?
      Behind me, the HDHV switches from program to advertisement:
      "TIRED of the EVERYDAY offerings on ESPN? Want something NEW, and
EXCITING? Try the ESPN NETWORK!! With ESPN Network, you GET all your
FAVOURITE programming, ESPN-1, Extra Sensory Perception Network, and
ESPN-2, ESP Classic, but also:
      "ESPN-3, Earthlings' Stupid Programming Network. Watch the humans,
who are so stupid they'll pay an idiot millions to throw a ball, but can't
afford to teach their own children. Watch them throw away their future,
for a dumb, dumb game. Oh, those Stupid, STUPID earthlings!
      "And, when you're tired of watching STUPID HUMANS, try ESPN-4, our
Extraordinary Sexual Practices Network. Learn just HOW the Dafidvanca
reproduce, find out JUST how FLEXIBLE an Itarilzian REALLY is, and learn
how PALTRY and SAD your own life is.
      "Then, go to ESPN-4's sister, sister-in-law, brother, uncle, and
three cousins network, ESPN-5, the Exceedingly Strange Pornography
Network, where ..."
      Having long since heard enough, I start pressing buttons, trying to
turn this thing off.
      The sound dies out with a rumble, the picture collapses into a
literal point in space, and the room is mercifully silent.
      Ahh, silence. Bless-ed silence. You *know* it won't last, don't you?
      "HEY!!! I WAS WATCHING THAT!!!"
      Turning, I see a man, or at least the semblance of a man, charging
toward me. He's holding a beer in one hand, and a bag of chips in the
other, and his eyes are almost glowing in fury. Glowing red.
      "Are you the Sage?" I ask.
      "TURN THAT BACK ... What did you say?"
      "Are you the Sage?" I ask again.
      "Well, of *course* I am!" he roars, throwing chips and beer into the
air. Fortunately, most of the mess lands on him, the rest soaks into the
magazines on the floor.
      "Good," I say, "I need information."
      He glowers at me. "You won't get it," he mutters, sullenly.
      "By hook or by crook, I will," I sneer. Then, dropping the Prisoner
riff, add, "or, by a twenty."
      "Twent-- Money!"
      "Well, yes."
      He sets the dripping beer, and the sopping chips on a table piled
with junk, wipes his hands fruitlessly on his pant legs, and turns to me,
all smiles. "How can I help you?"
      "I shake my head, doubting my own sanity. How can this creature
possibly help me find out what happened to Brism, or how to help?"
      "I'm the *SAGE*! That's how!" he roars again.
      "You don't even know my problem," I temporise.
      "I do."
      "How?"
      "I *told* you, I AM the SAGE!" he sneers, then adds, "besides, you
were narrating out loud."
      Oops.
      "Well then," I say, trying to regain some form of high ground.
      The Sage merely smirks, and holds out a beer-soaked paw.
      Deliberately, I place the bill in his hand.
      Smiling, he tucks it away, before saying: "Your Author is being
expelled from the universe."
      "W-h-a-t???!"
      Again, the Sage extends his hand.
      "What do you mean 'expelled'?"
      The hand remains extended. The fingers wiggle.
      "No," I snap, slapping his hand. "I'm not paying for less than half
an answer."
      "That *is* the answer. Take it or leave it."
      "It doesn't even make sense," I protest. "I didn't come all the way
out here for nonsense."
      "Nonsense! NON-S-E-N-S-E!!! *I* *AM* *THE* SAGE*, I do not talk
*N*O*N*S*E*N*S*E*!"
      "Cool it Willard," I growl, "you don't impress me."
      He flinches, only for a moment, but he does, definitely, flinch.
      "What did you call me?" he sputters.
      "You heard." Now it's my turn to sneer.
      "Bad enough I get called 'Vincini', now you're calling me ..."
      "I know your history, I know about the MIB, I know about the Uber
Machine, *and* I've read all of ALU 100."
      "And," he snaps back, "you think you'll get my cooperation with
threats? Even if I cared, its ancient history now, no one in the universe
cares what I was, not even me. I am the *Sage*! That's all that matters."
      "Maybe," I allow, "maybe not. A rat's still a rat, no matter how
evolved."
      "Meaning!"
      "You have your dignity, a rat's dignity, of course, but still ...
And, I don't think you'll be able to let me walk out of here without
showing off how smart you think you are."
      He stares at me, mouth working soundlessly, eyes popping, face
twisting in spasms of emotion.
      Grinning now, I continue, "if it were to get out that your
information wasn't worth the money, or the time, you'd be in deep trouble.
You've set yourself up well, difficult location, unpleasant surroundings,
prickly personality, larsenous, loathsome, and necessary. People put up
with all the rest, because they need the knowledge you give, and they
accept it, because of the difficulty in *getting* that knowledge from you.
All right, Willard, very good. Very clever. But, I won't play your game
... *Unless* you play mine. Then, you will find me ... *very* generous,
indeed."
      "How generous?" he croaks.
      "I thought you knew everything," I reply.
      There is a long, tense, silence. Finally, "Would you like some
pizza?" he asks.
      "Sure," I reply, all smiles, "I'll even chip in for half."
      "You're all heart." Then, softly, he mutters, "bastard."
      Later, over his third slice of pizza, he begins talking.
      "Do you know why the universe is the way it is? Why all this exists?"
      "I suppose the Authors, or some god, or ..."
      "No!" he explodes. "Authors, gods, all that came *later*! Embodiments
of the universal principles themselves. The universe exists, because it is
observed to exist."
      "Er, that's ..."
      "The universe came into being, and in that instant, before it could
cease to exist again, created observers, an Audience, if you will.
      "That first Audience, was also the first Author. God, if you like."
      "The universe ... created God," I falter.
      "Right. Of course, most people get that backwards, think Creation
needs a Creator, first, then creations, then is so vain it needs to create
stupid people to go 'oh, wow. What a wonderful Creator.' Nuts." He starts
to wipe his hands on his shirt, then catches himself, and uses a napkin.
"It's like this. The universe is all about circles, wheels within wheels.
Creation and destruction look like opposites, but that's a mistake.
They're in balance."
      "Yeah, I know, Order, Chaos, Creation, Destruction, and above them
all, Balance."
      He shakes his head, pityingly. "No, no, no. A star collapses,
explodes, and in that process creates new elements, new compounds that
weren't available before. A tree dies, and new life grows, inside that
death, then that life is eaten, and the eater is eaten, and up the scale.
Each death continues life. Death and Life are two sides of the same wheel,
and Balance is merely its axle.
      "As for Order, Order is merely the perceived pattern within a larger
Chaos, each ordered pattern enriching the chaotic whole, each tiny bit of
Chaos within Order's pattern making the pattern stronger, more flexible.
Again, they aren't antithetical, not at all, that's a fallacy of minds who
insist on duality as a bad thing.
      "The Observer is the agent of Balance, he destroys chaos, by creating
order, merging all the forces of the universe."
      "OK," I say slowly, "So the forces of Creation, and the rest, *think*
they made the universe, but ..."
      "Right. Which is why the Audience, the Fool, the Observer, defeated
them. He could see the path out of their zero-sum game of competition."
      I frown, and take a sip of the scotch he poured me. For a messy rat,
he does have good taste in food, and drink.
      "OK," I say, after swallowing, "I can see how all that fits together,
but what has that got to do with my problem?"
      "What?! Everything! It has everything to do with your problem! Look,
sooner or later, most gods make the same mistake, they start believing
their own rep. All-powerful, that's easy. All-present, well, harder, but
not impossible. All-knowing, that's not so easy."
      "Oh, really?" I ask, innocently, "why?"
      "To know everything would remove Chaos. Without Chaos, there's no
Order, without those two, no Death, no Life, no Creation, no universe."
      "Um, that's a big problem," I agree.
      "Yeah, yeah, right, right. So, the universe goes away, and so does
the omniscient nitwit, and then ..."
      "Yes," I lean forward, curious in spite of myself.
      "... the universe comes back, minus Mr. Know-it-all."
      "Oh," I say.
      He laughs, nastily, "never bet against the universe. It always wins."
      "Hmm, but ..."
      "Yes?"
      "I thought you knew everything?" I do my best to simulate wide-eyed
innocence.
      "Nuts," he mutters. "I do, but not all the time, and not all at the
same time. I always know where the information I need is, but I don't
always know what it is. Keeps me safe, keeps the universe happy, and
nothing and nobody goes pffffft! Besides, I've taken steps to make sure I
can't know everything. There's one thing I can never know."
      "What's that?"
      "I don't know. I think one of the Authors might, but I don't. I
can't."
      I frown. "Wait," I say slowly, "the Authors are omnipotent, but not
omniscient. Then, all their excuses are--"
      "Not excuses. There's a lot of stuff I try not to need to know,
believe me, and it's a good smokescreen for the truth."
      I swirl the ice in my glass, restlessly. "Fascinating as all this
is," I remark, "I'd like to--"
      "Yes, yes, your Author."
      "Yes."
      He sighs. "I told you, wheels within wheels. The Authors are channels
of creativity into the universe, held in check by the limits of their
Edit, and their muse."
      "I thought muses inspired Authors," I remarked.
      "Oh, they do, but they also regulate the inspiration. Pure creativity
would be as deadly as a stream of raw antimatter, if it started rushing
into the universe."
      I nod slowly. "Balance, again."
      "Right. Well, your Brism's out of balance. Brism inspires Brism to
create stories to amuse Brism. See the problem?"
      "I ... I think so," I falter.
      He slams his hand down on a pile of magazines, causing a cascade.
"Its a trap, like a Klein bottle, or Moebius loop, and the power keeps
rising. Either Brism will explode, or be shunted forever out of the
universe. Probably both."
      "Do ... Can you prove it?" I ask, shocked.
      "Of course I can. So can you."
      "How?" I challenge him.
      He shakes his head. "I can't tell you much more," he states.
      "Why not?"
      He sighs. "I can't afford to. I'm way too close to going pfffft as it
is. One of the reasons I live out here, keeps people from bothering me
with trivial problems that'd make me know too much."
      "Oh, come on!"
      He growls, "The things I do for ... Look at the stories. Its all
their, if you know where to look."
      "Well, where should I look? There are a lot of stories, you know."
      "Superguy," he growls, "Paradigm Inc. Check times, and eye colours."
      I blink. "Oooookaaaaaay!"
      "Now, the money," he reminds me.
      "I know, I know. Only ..."
      "WHAT?!"
      "What can I do?"
      "Must I think of everything?" he asks the ceiling, "break the loop.
Find Brism an audience, and a muse. Now, give me my money, and scram."
      I pass him two bills, two five-hundred dollar bills, and his eyes do
the whole rat-like thing again.
      "Nice doing business with you," he says, grinning.
      "Likewise," I say, with equal insincerity.
      "Oh, and one more thing," he adds.
      "Yes."
      "Whatever happens, it'll happen soon. I'd say you've got a week,
maybe less, before there's no hope."
      "What!"
      "Call it a freebie," he adds, riding over my exclamation, "for sharing
a pizza with me. Now, get outta heeeh, ya'got woik to do."
      Dazed, I nod, and step across the fourth wall, back into narration.
Now, I've got some reading to do, and I've got to get to Mademoiselle
Muse, Inc., and find a possible muse, and I've still got to find Brism,
and all within a week.
      Damn, talk about impossible.


                    WAS ALL THIS COSMIC BULL NECESSARY?
                WILL THE ROUND ROBIN AUTHORS SKIN ME ALIVE?
                           WILL BRISM GO PFFFFT?
                               WILL THE SAGE?
                                  WILL I?
                                 WILL YOU?

More answers in tomorrow's Roger Thompson Chronicles: Ammused to Death


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Brism Wanor, Lord Dougl, Keeper of the Eighth Echo
brism at earthlink.net

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